


A Study in Sorcery

by InkMySkin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe - High School, Changing POV, Gen, M/M, Magic, Minor KidLock, Potterlock, Teenlock, Wandlore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkMySkin/pseuds/InkMySkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mister Holmes, when you are sorted it is not just the attributes which individuals have that determine their place in our school house; if that were the case your would undoubtedly be a Slytherin. No, the attributes which you value and that which you deem worthwhile is also accounted for.  You, for instance, value knowledge above all else.  Empirical evidence and the lust for new information. But there buried deep is also bravery and loyalty and cunning too.  So where to put you?"</p><p>Sherlock's heart beat thrice on the pause.  </p><p>-</p><p>On the morning of Sherlock's eleventh birthday he receives he acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  In the seven years that follow, he learns of friendship, love and war. And some magic along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Sorcery

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first venture into PotterLock! I am intending to write a chapter per school year. Sherlock and John are attending Hogwarts at the same time as The Golden Trio so there is some canon occurrence but I think I have taken some liberties too. 
> 
> All characters belong to either Conan Doyle or J. K. Rowling.

**January 1991**

On the morning of Sherlock's eleventh birthday, the letter arrived on his breakfast-in-bed tray. He thanked the house elf quickly, distracted by the presence of dark green ink on parchment. It was as if the letter itself was mocking him, daring him to change his future. He had only seen that letter once before. Mycroft had received it 6 years previously on his eleventh birthday, but the older Holmes declined the offer of a place at Hogwarts. Sherlock picked it up off the tray, his fingers running over the ink of his name and address. 

_Sherlock Holmes_  
221 Belgrave Square  
London  
SW1X 8NS 

 

Carefully, he picked up the letter, almost hesitant in his handling and with a level of respect Sherlock held for barely anyone or anything. He turned it over to examine the wax seal, the school insignia stamped into once liquid wax, now cool and embossed, his finger touched the badge. Another second and Sherlock knew he would not be able to eat his breakfast without knowing for sure. With quick nimble fingers, the seal was broken from parchment and the letter pulled from its envelope. Sherlock scanned the contents briefly just to make sure it was a letter of acceptance. Then, and only then, did he allow himself to relax. To lean back into his pillows and smile. 

Little did he know, that his acceptance into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would change him forever. 

 

***

**July**

Ollivander looked at Sherlock quizzically for a few seconds, taking in the defiance of his eyes, the heavy weight of early responsibility on his young shoulders. He made a short noise and disappeared behind the back. Sherlock's frown deepened. He had not been allowed with Mycroft when he had bought his first wand, but he knew roughly what to expect. Sherlock had been waiting for this day for seventh months now, eager to know his wand which would help him harness his magic through life. Behind him, Violet Holmes sat elegantly in the waiting chair, reading from the list of equipment required which had arrived with Sherlock's acceptance letter. 

"An owl, or a cat, or a toad." She stressed each 'or' and sighed. "Do you wish to take a pet Sherlock?" She asked, raising her head to look at her son. Her son had always had few friends, perhaps an animal to care for would be good for him.

The young wizard shrugged, keeping his back to his mother as Ollivander returned. He didn't care to think of animals at such a crucial point in his magical future. Whichever wand chose him would speak volumes about himself for the rest of his life. What core would it have? Which wood?

"Try this, young Master Holmes."

Sherlock broke out of his thoughts and took the offered wand from the elderly wizard. He held it in his grip, firm and foreign, regarding it briefly before waving it in the general direction of the windows onto Diagon Ally. The window silently cracked and a howling wind passed briefly up the avenue, causing a couple of screams from a gaggle of young girls. 

Sherlock offered the wand back to Mr Ollivander, having the decency to look sheepish as the old man laughed. In the corner, Violet Holmes looked faintly appalled. The wand was replaced, "No, I think not." With a wave of his own wand, Hornbeam, twelve and three quarter inches with a Dragon Heartstring core, Mr Ollivander repaired the crack in his shop window. "You know, I remember when your father came for his wand, and your brother just a few years ago." Ollivander mused and he perused over the shelves once more. "Though he never did attend Hogwarts, did he."

It was a statement rather than a question, but Violet Homes answered anyway, her slight accent giving away her homeland. "No, he chose to attend Beauxbatons after myself."

"You must be terribly old if you made the wand my father uses." Sherlock dead panned, his mind elsewhere. 

"Sherlock!" His mother chastised quickly, but Ollivander waved it off, laughing and coughing into his hand when it got too much for his lungs.

"Holmes'." He said, smiling, speaking as if the family name explained something. His voice dropped to a murmured intended for his own ears, but Sherlock kept listening. "Highly individual, honest and argumentative; don't bend to other's will. I wonder-”

The old wizard disappeared again and gave Sherlock a moment to think. Perhaps a pet would be a good accompaniment to his time at school. Not something he could alienate though, as he did with everyone else it seemed. Rats would get lost, owls demanded too much attention to be fed and set free to fly. He needed something independent. Sherlock turned to his mother, answering her previous question. "I'd like a cat to take away with me, mother." He informed her. Violet smiled and nodded.

Ollivander returned a moment later having retrieved a relatively clean box compared to the others. "I fashioned this from Ebony last month. Dragon Heartstring core, ten and a quarter inches." He offered the open box to Sherlock and the boy took it carefully. The height of the wand seemed extravagant in his hand, but he supposed he would grow into it. The shape of the handle seemed to naturally nestle into his palm, his grip relaxed but firm and sure. Almost immediately the tip of the wand lit up, glowing bright golden in stark contrast to the black of the ebony wood. A strange and pleasant warmth filled Sherlock. The young boy turned and pointed the wand at the cabinet in the corner. With a flick of his wrist the flowers on top of the cabinet, wasted, long dried and brittle bloomed with renewed life. Sherlock beamed. 

"Young Master Holmes, I believe you shall be very pleased with this wand." 

 

***  
 **September**

 

Sherlock pushed the sliding door shut and sat down heavily on the seat with a sigh. Thankfully, he had found an empty compartment for himself on the Hogwarts Express and he intended to scowl at everyone to ensure it stayed that way. Resting back against the window so his legs could stretch along the rest of the seat, Sherlock pulled out his latest book on wandlore. Since his trip to Ollivander's and the disaster and magnificence which had occurred, his latest obsession had become the study of wands. 

Outside the carriages of the train, a chocohany of sound; parents fussing over children, repeating lessons of eating their vegetables and wearing suitable footwear; the squawk of caged owls and the heavy thuds of chests of belongings being stored for the journey.

 

The train has only been travelling a few minutes when Sherlock became aware of hushes chattering outside his compartment. He glanced up to see three girls stood there, clearly they knew each other before boarding the train. Raised around magic then, like him. They giggled further when they saw him looking. After a moment, one plucked up whatever courage she could muster and knocked before opening the compartment door a crack. 

"Hello." She said brightly, "I'm Phoebe."

Sherlock frowned, "Can I help?"

"Are you... My friends and I were just wondering... Are you Him?" Phoebe practically whispered the last word.

"Who?" Sherlock matched her tone, making the whisper sound excited beyond how he truly felt at the appearance of this girl.

"You know, _Harry Potter?_ "

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Of course, he knew who Harry Potter was. Everyone raised around magic did. "If I was Harry Potter I don't think I'd be sat alone in a compartment, do you?"

The girl looked confused, so Sherlock helped her on her way, "Get out."

 

***

 

Indescribable. He had heard the term used in reference to first setting eyes upon Hogwarts countless times by so many people. Sherlock had always scoffed; nothing was _indescribable_. 

How wrong he had been. He now knew exactly what people meant. 

Around him, breaking through the water gently, boat-loads of eleven year old were marvelling up at the castle. 

The lights of the windows were golden and welcoming before the impressive architecture and Sherlock felt a glow of warmth spark his belly. Even though he had never set foot inside before, it felt as if he was coming home. 

 

***

 

"I will place the hat upon your head and you will be sorted into your houses..."

Sherlock had heard of this hat from his father; it was ancient, animate and conscious thanks to each of the four founders donating a little of their magic to it. The Sorting Hat. 

"Alex Cartwright."

One of the boys stepped forwards confidently; pure blood, with an elder sibling in Ravenclaw.

Sherlock stood to the side lines and watched as one by one the new students were sorted. In his mind he categorised them himself, on the likelihood they would be friends. Dependent, of course, on which house he was sorted in to. 

The majority was categorised as unlikely they would be friends. 

"Hermione Granger." 

Muggle-born; Gryffindor. Higher likelihood than most that they would be friends, she was intelligent that much was obvious. 

"Nicholas Hart."

Half-Blood, nervous but outwardly confident. Arrogant. Slytherin. Zero friendship likelihood. 

"John Watson."

Sherlock watched as a blonde boy stepped forwards hesitantly, scared but curious. Muggle-born, with a deep fascination for the magical world he now found himself in. John. Boring name, no doubt a boring nature and Sherlock tuned out as the sorting hat started murmuring.

Some moments later one of the tables exploded into cheers as the boring blond boy joined their school family, their yellow and black ties waving as people stood to shake the hand of their new comer. 

"Sherlock Holmes." 

As the sorting hat dropped onto his head, Sherlock's mind unhelpfully supplied that the item was probably riddles with years of children's head lice. 

"I think not." The voice sprouted out of the hat in disgust. "I do not have lice, young man. A Holmes. Your father is Siger, yes? Fine young wizard he was, something which I've no doubt your brother is too, though we here at Hogwarts never had that pleasure." There seemed to be a tone of resentment in the hats voice, but then Sherlock's couldn't blame it, his brother might as well have tarnished the schools reputation by declining their offer of a place. "Mister Holmes," the hat continued, "when you are sorted it is not just the attributes which individuals have that determine their place in our school house; if that were the case your would undoubtedly be a Slytherin. No, the attributes which you value and that which you deem worthwhile is also accounted for. You, for instance, value knowledge above all else. Empirical evidence and the lust for new information. But there buried deep is also bravery and loyalty and cunning too. So where to put you? I'd say..."

Sherlock's heart beat thrice on the pause. 

"Ravenclaw!"

Another table burst into cheers, and Sherlock couldn't help but wonder if they would still be cheering if they knew what he was like. 

 

***

**October**

 

Settling down into life at Hogwarts was easier and more fun than Sherlock had ever imagined. Having grown up around magic he knew basic principles; that the magic was in the child and wands harnessed this; and with a Hogwarts education he could finally learn and conduct his own magic. Beforehand he had not allowed by law to conduct any magic of his own until he was eleven and owned a wand; and even them that was only in school grounds. Young Sherlock listened intently to everything the professors had to offer, asking questions and reading extensively until exhaustion knackered him out and he slumped face first into the surprising softness of his pillows.

Before Hogwarts, friends had never really factored into the equation of Sherlock's life, and he'd been content with that. In their first weeks, others attempted to speak to him, mostly those he shared his dorm with. But once they caught the idea that he was a little extra-ordinary, as all did eventually, they left him to his own devices. And Sherlock didn't mind, preferred it, even. Besides, he had his cat, Jasper. That was, of course, until the occasion that Professor Flitwick set a pair work assignment in Charms. 

"Your pairings have already been allocated," The professor's voice raised above the excited hubbub of student's voices, "So, Miss Henley, you will not be working with Mister Williamson, despite the directions of your heart."

Sherlock sat slumped in his desk at the thought of this, his fingers playing with the already tatty edges of his Standard Book of Spells. Whoever came up with the idea of group work was an idiot. He glanced around the class of mixed Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, dreading whichever idle social loafer he ended up paired it. 

"Watson, you're with Holmes."

It could be worse, Sherlock's thought as the popular but inevitably boring blonde Hufflepuff boy wandered over, bright eyed and excitable, to sit next to him. 

"Hi, I'm John."

As the class continued, and despite himself, Sherlock's curiosity to make friends was piqued.

***

**November**

As it turned out, John is remarkably patient with what Mummy had always called Sherlock's eccentricities, whatever that meant. The young boy made a mental note to look that one up and learn it properly. 

The two young wizards met three times a week, at Sherlock's insistence that they both needed the practice; for John to learn and for himself to improve beyond his brother. Huddled in the same dusty corner of the library each time, Sherlock and John revised what they had been taught. Their task could be one of any already covered, so it was best to be proficient in all, according to Sherlock. Muggle-born, and in awe of the young Ravenclaw, eleven year old John Watson readily agreed. He practiced his incantation and movement while Sherlock read the theory behind the spells, before swapping tasks and testing each other.

Late into one evening, with few minutes left before it was time to return to their separate dormitories, John was sat frowning at his Charms book, trying to remember the theory and wand movement behind a flame producing spell he was struggling with. His finger was tracing the motion on the worn table, as if he wasn't conscious of doing it. Next to him, Sherlock was half asleep, eyes drooped and watching with vague interest as books flew around behind them, returning themselves to the shelves they called home. 

At the beginning of their partnership, John had flinched every time one flew just a inch too close. As if he felt it would hit him. It never did, of course. But now, the young blonde had grown used to the books flying, reading unflinchingly. 

"John?" Sherlock drew the name out gently, keeping quiet in the library.

"Hmm?"

"What's it like growing up without magic?"

John looked up, watching the books arrange themselves too. He had grown used to it, but that didn't meant the light of awe had left his eyes when he saw it first hand. He shrugged one shoulder, "Normal for eleven years. You do everything without the aid of magic and-" he indicated his wand where both of theirs lay together on the table. 

"Everything?" Sherlock asked, sleepy but with disbelief in his voice. 

John nodded, "You should try it for a day." He smirked, knowing Sherlock wouldn't managed, not now he was allowed to properly use his wand. 

Sherlock pulled a face and John laughed quietly in the silence of the library. 

They were silent for a few more minutes before John again, whispering softly. "Did you ever find out more about the Halloween Troll?"

***

**December**

By the second lesson on the Thursday it was time to present their charms to the class.

"Your task today, first years, is to each create a contained flame inside," Flitwick held up a glass beaker, "Your conical beakers. Remember, the flame must be the correct temperature and size. Who's first?"

Sherlock and John were sat next to each other, Sherlock's elbow on the desk supporting his head as his eyes drifted, they had been up late the night before, practicing. He watched as one by one, each pairing got up and mostly successfully demonstrated the magic. Next to him, and despite his lack of sleep, John was almost bouncing in his chair. 

"Will you sit still?" Sherlock snapped under his breath, the combination of irritable tiredness and his own lack of social skills bringing an edge to his words. 

John wasn't phased. "How can this not excite you every time you see it? Any magic at all?"

"Pure blood." Sherlock said by way of explanation.

Soon it was their turn. John attached their conical beaker to the apparatus, suspending it in mid air. "Do you want to go first?" He muttered quietly to Sherlock, who nodded. 

Sherlock's memory called forward the incantation and wand movement. He gripped his ebony wand firmly, but without strangling it, took a breath and moved his wand in the shape of the flame he wanted to produce, " _Incendio_."

Inside his conical beaker a self contained small ball of fire lit spontaneously, shaping itself into a perfect flame shape. Sherlock's smiled. Mister Ollivander had been right. 

Flitwick was delighted, "Well done, Mister Holmes. Excellent. Strong flame."

Then it was John's turn. The blonde swallowed heavily, removing Sherlock's beaker and attaching his own to the apparatus. 

It seemed the attentions of the whole class was on him, watching his every shaky movement; excited and nervous all at once. In reality of course, the young wizards were holding their own whispered conversations, excited for the end of class and the upcoming holidays. 

John took up his wand, nine and three quarter inches, English Oak and Unicorn hair. He practiced the motion, more of a wishbone shape, he thought, without the incantation once, before repeating it, " _Incendio_."

Before his eyes, a small flame bloomed inside his beaker, like a rose in summer. John beamed. But his smile slowly froze and dropped as he realised what was happening. He had struggled with this spell all through their practice. As the class watched, and Flitwick's delighted squeals quieted, the flame grew. Soon it filled the whole space inside the beaker, burning brighter with each passing second. 

"Extinguish that rogue flame, Mister Watson." Flitwick instructed, but as John rose his wand again to utter the opposite incantation the beaker around the flame melted as the heat became too much. 

As hot glass hit the cool surface of their protection mats steam billowed up like a mini mushroom cloud. It cleared relatively quickly and in front of John sat the solidified remains of his melted beaker. 

There was an awkward hush across the room. 

Perhaps it was the late nights practicing catching up in him, or the utter giddiness of being allowed to do magic, but John was overcome with the giggles. He pressed his hand to his mouth, his shoulders shifting beneath his robe as he struggled to stifle it. Next to him, he was aware of Sherlock's shoulders following a similar pattern. 

They caught each other's eyes. And burst into fits of laughter. 

The resulting hours detention, in Sherlock's eyes, was worth it. With the help of exchanged letters over the holidays, by the spring term, and despite Sherlock's best efforts to focus solely on his studies, John Watson, born on the 7th July, eternal optimist and prone to giggles, was a firm friend. 

 

***

**April**

 

One night, long after the end of dinner but before he had gone to bed, John was sat in the warm comfort of the Hufflepuff Common Room. It was definitely his favourite place in the castle; filled with fresh oxygen for thought from the plants that adorned the walls, low ceilings and circular doorways, it reminded him of the Hobbit Holes he read of in his favourite book. He was curled into the corner of one of the large black and yellow striped sofas, reading up on his fire-making spell. As funny at it had been, John did not want a repeat of his demonstration from last term ever again. 

He was pulled from his reading by the sound of a small bell, and looked down to find Jasper blinking up at his. John had grown fond of Sherlock's black cat in the times he had seen him; silky black and mostly silent, apart from the bell on his collar. Jasper jumped up onto the sofa. 

"Hey." John murmured, scratching the affection-less fluff ball around the ears. Jasper purred for a a second, before seemingly remembering himself and the indifferent attitude he seemed to hold. 

Attached to his front right paw there was a scrap of rolled up parchment. Smiling, John gently unattached it and rolled it out.

_If convenient, let me in. If inconvenient, come outside. S._

John pocketed the note and closed his book, leaving it tucked into the sofa cushions. There was few people around and he would collect his copy on his way to bed. Holding the scowling cat in his arms he left the common room for the corridor, no doubt to break school rules if Sherlock has anything to do with it. 

***

 

"Remember what Dumbledore said at the beginning of the year?"

John frowned, "No." It still amazed him that Sherlock's memory retained so much. "He's said a lot of things since then. What did he say?"

The two young wizards were crouched on a moving staircase, waiting for it to finish its motion and hoping they wouldn't be spotted by neither human nor animal; the area being a preferred patrol spot of Mrs Norris.

Sherlock glanced conspiratorially around despite the emptiness of the castle before dropping his voice lower, "He said to avoid a certain corridor unless we wished a most painful death." His eyes gleamed and the staircase halted. Sherlock sprung up and approached the door, oblivious to John turning white behind him. 

"Sherlock, I don't wish to die painfully. I don't wish to die yet at all!"

The brunette was already disappearing inside the door.

"Sherlock!" John whispered furiously after him, already following despite his better judgement. 

The smell was what hit John first: musty and old, like no fresh air had been through the long corridor in a very long time. It was dark, the only feeble light coming from the door they had opened from the moving staircases. 

" _Lumos._ "

The end of Sherlock's wand lit with a warm white light and John scrambled to have his wand follow suit. He shut the door behind them, not wanting to leave any trace of their presence. 

"Why are we here?" John whispered, his eyes finding the mass of cobwebs overhanging their heads, collecting in corners and draped on an old suit of armour. 

"Harry Potter came down here. I wanted to know what he had seen for myself." Sherlock was looking around in fascination.

"How-?"

"He's curious," Sherlock went about explaining. "Curious and brave. But bravery is just false stupidity really. Drawn by what Dumbledore had said our first evening here, I wager he roamed around at night, looking for the mystery third floor corridor which was unused by students and teachers alike. Out of bounds. Until he located it, this one, and found its secrets." Sherlock started down the corridor, stepping silently somehow. John followed, his footsteps a touch louder. 

"Or he happened upon it accidentally." John suggested. 

Sherlock shook his head, "The Boy Who Lived? Please."

At the end of the corridor there was a locked door. But that was it. 

"Let's go back." John suggested, his thoughts only with his bed and how he wasn't in it at this late hour. He pinched his fingers into Sherlock's sleeve and tugged, walking backwards and half guiding his curious friend with him. 

"But why is it locked?" Sherlock said, his eyes still trained on the bolted door and stumbling backwards. 

"It's not any of our business." John reasoned, closing the door to the corridor behind them again with a clink that resonated down the mass of staircases. 

The two friends made their way silently back towards the split of corridors that led to each of their Dormitories. It was there before Sherlock spoke again. "We could ask Potter? Or go back again. Why was it locked, John?" He whispered, eyes glancing around for anyone who would give them away, but even the portraits snored gently. 

"Goodnight, Sherlock." John said, yawning and shooting a fond smile to his newfound friend. He wandered back to the Hufflepuff Common Room and collected his book before quietly retiring to his bed. 

Both Sherlock and John remained blissfully unaware they had evaded the drooling snores of a certain three-headed dog...

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> Researched to the best of my ability, but if anything is amiss please do let me know. The first year is very Harry-centric so not much is happening here. Some original characters are named after other roles of actors, so have fun spotting them!
> 
> * Mycroft's mentioned attendance at Beauxbatons - the school is depicted as being females only in the fourth Potter film, but male students are mentioned in the books. Thank you Harry Potter Wiki.


End file.
